


when the lights go out

by dimpleforyourthoughts



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Absolutely Shitfaced Shenanigans, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Drunken Shenanigans, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff and Fun, Keith Kogane: Local Cryptid, Lance McClain: Bisexual Disaster, M/M, Only Happy Gays Here :), all the others are mentioned - Freeform, non-binary Pidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 18:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15646338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimpleforyourthoughts/pseuds/dimpleforyourthoughts
Summary: Date and a Fifth: a type of party in which everyone must come with a date and a 750 ML bottle of hard alcohol (fifth). However, you must stay zip tied to your date until the two of you finish the entire bottle together.//(In which Lance needs a date, Keith needs cash, and maybe they fall in love along the way.)





	when the lights go out

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE YOU READ PLEASE NOTE: I never watched VLD beyond s2, so any and all characters/background beyond that point will not be acknowledged in this fic EXCEPT for Adam, who is very much alive and very gay and very in love in this universe :) 
> 
> this whacky lil fic has been gathering dust for over a year in my drafts and tbqh i didnt have any intention of finishing it until yesterday so--i suppose thanks are owed to the vld writer's room, who managed to singlehandedly inspire me to finish this damn fic out of sheer petty spite
> 
> this is dedicated to all the queer kiddos out there who deserve happy endings and deserve to see happy endings represented in the media they consume. this one’s for you. 
> 
> title from “run away with me” by queen CRJ bc i couldn’t not ;)
> 
> thank you to K, J & V, as always <3  
> also to saph for being a wonderful cheerleader and enabler
> 
>  **CONTENT WARNINGS:** massive alcohol consumption and drunken shenanigans that one would expect of college parties, drunk kissing (ALL of it is consensual), as well as a brief referenced instance of fatphobia

 

*

 ** Date and a Fifth **   


**Definition:** a type of party in which everyone must come with a date and a 750 ML bottle of hard alcohol (fifth). However, you must stay zip tied to your date until the two of you finish the entire bottle together. 

-Urban Dictionary

*

“Dude, you are so fucked.”

This is maybe the understatement of the year. And it isn’t helped by the fact that Hunk makes a pitying noise from where he’s leaning over Lance’s shoulder, looking at the phone clutched loosely in his hand.

“Thanks Hunk,” Lance says weakly. “Thanks so much.”

The text message on the screen pretty much sums up the situation in and of itself. Hunk wasn’t lying, and Lance is indeed fucked.

There’s no arguing that.

 **allura >>>lance**  
hey dude  
not gonna b able to make it to ur frat thing tonight  
remember that barista that’s been giving me free drinks? i’m meeting with her tonight  
sry!

Lance closes his eyes. Opens them again. Close. Open. Close. The text message doesn’t change. It only seems to mock him silently.

Shit. Double shit.

He’s going to kill Allura. Kill her. And then he’s going kill himself.

 **lance >>>allura**  
you are a terrible friend!!! the ultimate betrayal!!!! how could u do this 2 me!!!!  
plus i thought you wanted to come!!!!  
u were just complaining about wanting to get laid!!!

 **allura**  
honey this party is at a fraternity and i am literally a lesbian  
h o n e y.

 **lance**  
ugh FINE  
but u owe me  
u owe me so big

He looks back Hunk. “You are a terrible best friend and I’m blaming this entirely on you.”

“Me?” Hunk laughs. “What did I do?”

“‘Just go for it, Lance,’ you said, ‘No fear, Lance. Allura will come through and be a solid date, Lance.’”

“First of all, I specifically said ‘Do what you want, Lance.’ Which is not the same as ‘Just go for it, Lance.’ Also, I want to point out it is not my fault that you waited until yesterday to find a date to this stupid party anyway. Maybe if you hadn’t procrastinated, you wouldn’t be the only single pledge, Lance.”

“Terrible friend. I’m trading you in for a newer model.” Lance drags his hand over his face with a groan. “Fuck. Fucking dicks. You’re right. I’m fucked.”

Hunk nods and hums sympathetically, his rough and comforting Hunk hands giving Lance a bracing pat on the shoulder.

Behind them, inside the Sigma Nu house, the party’s already in the tentative beginnings of a full swing. Colored lights filter across the damp grass of the lawn.

Through the window, Lance can see Shiro with a bunch of the other eager-to-please pledges, and hisses through his teeth.

“I should be in there. I worked so goddamn hard to get a date.” Which was true! So true! He may have waited until the last minute and Allura may be his friend and a lesbian but she’s not exactly the _easiest_ person to win over. He had to promise to cat-sit for her over spring break and everything.

“Evidently my dude, not hard enough,” Hunk responds. “Because your date has bailed.”

“Please do me a favor and push me out into oncoming traffic.”

“Okay drama queen, you know you don’t have to go, right? This isn’t a required rush event.”

“Are you crazy? If I don’t go to this party, I may as well say sayonara to any chances I had for becoming SigNu. I can’t miss this. I need a date, stat.”

“Maybe scan Tinder? See if you can hit up anyone?”

Lance thinks of his long abandoned tinder app and the few forced conversations with those rare matches—internet dating is _boring_ —and shakes his head. “I’ll have to figure something out.”

“Well, I wish you the best. I gotta go man, my date’s here,” Hunk says, getting that silly gooey look on his face that pops up whenever his girlfriend arrives. Lance loves Hunk and has generally boasted to be willing to take a bullet for him, but the guy is such a sap. “Good luck finding someone. Just ease off the smolder a bit when you ask them out, okay Ladies Man?”

“Ha. Yeah.” Lance cringes, trying not to visibly panic.

He watches, shivering slightly in the crisp November air, as Hunk sweeps his girlfriend Shay into a bear hug, swings her around in circle, and they walk into the party together, fingers tangled. Gross.

Lance walks out onto the street of the Fraternity Row, glancing about. There are people all over the place. It’s ten thirty on a Saturday night, of course there’s people. Lance’s eyes skip over a group of girls already tipsily tottering in six-inch heels, a group of green freshman who look somewhat terrified as they eye all the frat houses.

Biting his lip, Lance scans the street in a desperate search for a potential date.

He needs someone sober, and someone who can hold their liquor. Someone who might be too distracted by the frat party to notice how absolutely lame their date is. Someone who’s never been to a frat party, and might jump at the chance to attend one.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lance spots a dude in skinny jeans and boots, walking in the opposite direction of him under the street lamps. A large pair of headphones sit atop his head. He’s kind of slight looking, but it’s hard to tell. Lance figures the whole ‘slight looking’ thing might because he’s literally staggering under the weight of the equipment he’s carrying, large bulky shoulder bags and a rolling suitcase, what the hell.

Despite that, the weight doesn’t deter him; the guy is power-walking with a purpose, looking determined.

Trying not to judge, Lance takes in the guy’s appearance at a closer glance: the obnoxiously loud red leather jacket that is way too short for him; the upkeep of his hair, who knew were mullets were still a thing? Lance sure didn’t; the fact that he looks extremely sober for 10:30 on a Saturday night.

The guy’s never stepped with 100 feet of a frat house, that’s for sure.

He’ll have to do.

“Hey!” Lance calls out, striding after the guy. “Hey!”

He gets close and then stops, a strange recognition dawning on him. He makes to double back but it’s too late, the guy’s already turning, slipping his headphones down to hang around his neck, and giving Lance a very annoyed and standoffish look.

“Look, I don’t have a light for your joint, so if you just—”

“That’s not—no.” Lance flaps his hand about as he grasps for understanding, “Listen. My dude. You’ve got me all wrong.”

The guy—Lance can’t place the name, but he _knows_ him, he swears he does—gives Lance a wary look.

“So, what exactly do you want?” He frowns.

Okay. Lance can do this. Lance can totally, totally get this random stranger who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than right here talking to Lance, to go on a date with him. Right. Yeah.

“How would you like to make fifty bucks tonight?”

The guy narrows his eyes. “So what, you want me to _sell_ joints?”

“No! Jesus, I—I need you to be my date to this stupid party. It’s a frat thing, I need cred, you’d be doing me a solid.”

The guy juts his chin out slightly, craning his neck like he didn’t quite hear what Lance just said.

“Your date.”

“Yeah, it’s for this frat party thing. The theme is Date & a Fifth.”

“Date and a _what_.”

“So like, you get zip tied to someone for the night, and you guys both have to drink a fifth of liquor, and then—”

“That’s insane,” Mullet-Boy says, giving Lance a look like Lance is on fire, or talking gibberish. “You’re insane. Why the hell would anyone willingly subject themselves to drinking a fifth?”

“Half a fifth,” Lance corrects him. “Hence the whole ‘Date’ part.”

If the guy cranes his neck out any further, his skull may just detach from his spine.

“Even if I did say yes—there’s no way fifty bucks is worth the hangover that will leave me with.”

“Name your price,” Lance blurts. “Really. Name it. I don’t have a lot of money but what I lack in funds I make up for in desperation, so.”

“Two hundred,” the guy says testily, like he’s sure Lance will say _fuck off_ and walk the other direction.

Lance probably should? Leave? Like he could definitely get a last minute date for a lower price. He’s not exactly broke, but two hundred bucks is not just something he can part easily with. He is a college student after all.

Still, he hesitates. He can’t put his finger on it, there’s something about this guy. Be it the weird familiarity of him or the general vibe he’s giving off (like he’d rather be caught dead than talking to Lance, which means he’s pretty much Lance’s type to a tee).

There’s just something about the guy, so Lance throws caution to the winds and says, “You got yourself a deal,” and offers his hand to shake, because why the fuck not.

Mullet-boy blinks.

“You’re really gonna pay me two hundred bucks. To go to some stupid party.”

“One-time deal,” Lance says flatly, trying to make it seem as nonchalant as he possibly can, like the guy could walk away and he wouldn’t care. “Take it or leave it, buddy, I don’t got all night.”

The guy looks up to the sky, like he’s pleading to the universe to send a lightning bolt to come down and smite him right this second. Like he can’t believe he’s even considering this.

But then he takes Lance’s hand in a firm handshake. “Okay. Fine! Fine. I’ll go to fifth and a friend with you, or whatever. But you better follow through on that two hundred bucks.”

“Really?!” Lance whoops. “Oh man, you’re saving my life, my fuckin’ _life_.”

“Don’t mention it,” says the guy, who’s still eyeing Lance like he’s an absolute lunatic.

Lance realizes he’s still pumping his arm and holding the guy’s hand in an enthusiastic handshake, and drops quickly.

There’s an awkward pause as they both stare at each other, silence underscored by the thumping of bass outside the frat house, neither knowing what to say.

“So. Uh. Should we go in?”

“I have to make a stop,” the guy—Lance’s date—says, followed by, “I don’t think carrying all this stuff into a frat party would be the best idea.”

“Oh! My bad—here, let me help you.” Lance offers to take some of the equipment from the guy’s arms. “Where are you headed? I’ll help you carry it.”

“My apartment, and you can just wait here. I don’t really need help.”

“Puh-lease, it’s the very least I can do.” Lance tips his head to the side, holding out an arm for something to be placed into. After another look, the guy sighs.

“Go nuts,” Mullet-boy says, handing Lance what turns out to be what feels like a hundred pounds of weight in a small duffle bag, Jesus Christ. It takes Lance all his strength not to fucking stagger underneath the weight. “We better get going. Looks like your party’s already underway.”

He’s right. The thumping bass has somehow increased in amperage. Lance shoulders the anvil-bag and marches after his date down the streets of frat row.

*

“What’s your name, by the way?” Lance gasps out, six blocks and a severe side cramp from the weight of the duffle bag later.

“Do you really need that information?” asks the guy, not looking at Lance as he takes a sharp right and marches them right into Crowder Hall, the sophomore dorm. “Isn’t that the whole point of this night: not to remember anything?”

Much to Lance’s agony, they wander past the elevator with an Out Of Order sign and hike up four flights of stairs, and walk to the end of a long hallway. Most of the dorms are decorated with nameplates and school colors, a few posters or obscene bumper stickers, but the door they stop at is totally bare.

“I’d still like to know the name of the guy who I’m gonna be zip tied to for the night. I’ve been calling you Mullet in my head for about ten minutes now so maybe it’s a good idea to give me something. Unless you prefer Mullet, that is.”

“I do not, in fact, prefer Mullet.” The guy shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out a lanyard of keys, giving Lance a flinty-eyed look. “But since you asked, it’s Keith.”

Keith. Lance smiles, then realizes he parroted the name back aloud, and covers by tacking on, “I’m Lance.”

Keith gives Lance another one of those weird looks, one that Lance feels he’s going to be seeing a lot of tonight. “Yeah, I know.”

And then he’s stepping into the dorm room, leaving Lance to stagger after him.

*

It takes all of two minutes inside Keith’s apartment to pick up that Keith is not much of a conversationalist. Then again, next to Lance, few people are.

Keith leaves Lance standing in a tiny kitchenette with a glass of water in a Han Solo Souvenir cup and a terse, “Be right back. Gonna get changed,” and that’s that.

He’s gone all of five seconds before Lance gets antsy, standing on the grimy linoleum, and begins to do a bit of poking around.

Despite the lack of décor on the door, Keith’s dorm is not exactly lacking in clutter and homeyness. Lance thumbs through a stack of CDs including but not limited to Evanescence and My Chemical Romance (which, yeah, Lance is not going to judge anyone’s music tastes because he’s not a total dick but he truly didn’t even know there were people who listened to MCR still) and then spots the complete collection of X-Files boxsets scattered all over the coffee table. All nine seasons and the movies, too. He really should introduce this guy to Pidge. They’d probably get along like peas in a pod.

“So,” Lance half-shouts, as he hears the sound of drawers sliding open and clothes rustling coming from the bedroom. “What were all those bags for? Besides breaking my spine?”

“Uh, I’m a film major,” Keith shouts back. “I was shooting scenes for my thesis today, and my ride for transporting the camera equipment bailed so. Yeah.”

“What kind of thesis?” Lance asks, leaning back to eye the posters on the wall, a smattering of k-pop bands and nature photography. One of a blurry UFO that just says ‘I WANT TO LEAVE’ in sparkly font. He takes a quick Snap of it and sends it to Pidge, knowing they’ll get a kick out of it.

“Uh, a documentary, actually.”

“Neat! About what?”

“Uh, cryptids.”

“Cryptids like urban legends?”

“Something like that.”

Another rustle of clothes, the sound of a zipper being pulled, and the bedroom door being opened again. Lance turns and—

Oh.

The dim lighting of the street and the sallow off-yellow of the dormitory hallway did not do Lance’s date justice at all.

He’s swapped his black t-shirt out for another identical, but slightly less wrinkled black t-shirt, which isn’t that impressive. But he’s lost the hideous red jacket. And while Lance would never try the mullet thing himself, he may have misjudged the look on Keith a little too soon, because in this moment it’s…not the worst thing Lance has ever seen.

(And. Here’s the thing. Apart from looking like a fire truck, the Hideous Red Jacket’s worst offense begins and ends with the simple fact that it pretty much covered up what is….a rather impressive physique. Objectively speaking, here.)

Huh. Maybe this isn’t doomed for disaster like he’d thought.

“What?” Keith’s hand jumps to the back of his head. “Is the look for a frat party not complete unless I’m wearing a bro tank?”

Lance is torn between saying fuck yeah and fuck no. Because on one hand Keith’s biceps but on the other hand that t-shirt is already working wonders for Keith’s biceps and Lance can’t be entirely sure but he thinks he may have been staring silently for at least ten seconds so he should really say something right about now.

“Nah, you’re fine.” He downs the rest of the water in the Han Solo cup, throat feeling oddly dry. “You ready?”

“One sec.” Much to Lance’s despair, Keith grabs the Hideous Red Jacket off the counter and puts it back on, shoving his keys, wallet and phone in the pocket. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, the date begins.

*

“Fucking _finally,_ ” Hunk crows, as Lance and Keith walk up the front porch stairs of the SigNu house.

He’s standing there in the entryway with Shay, and their wrists are definitely tied together, but he doesn’t look too put-out about it, tugging Shay close and whispering something in her ear before he says, “We waited like an hour. Oy! Shiro! Get Lance a zippy!”

“It’s a zip-tie, you lush,” Pidge cackles, even though they look pretty tipsy themselves, zip-tied to their twin brother Matt (which is _so_ cheating, and makes Lance wish he had a twin to undergo what’s surely to be a night of humiliation with).

Lance grins at his friends, and then remembers his date, trudging a bit awkwardly up the steps behind him.

“Guys,” says Lance, with a grand flourish of his hand. “This is my new friend Keith. Keith, this is Hunk and Shay and this is Pidge and Matt.”

“Hi.” Keith nods, a bit awkwardly, shaking hands with all the free hands.

Lance doesn’t miss Pidge’s raised eyebrow at the Hideous Red Jacket, and nearly dies of appreciation when they refrain from commenting.

“So, uh. How do you two know each other?” Hunk asks, casting Lance a wide-eyed look. “I’ve never seen you before. Does that mean you took my advice about tinder?”

“What’s that, Shiro?” Lance blurts, dragging Keith by the sleeve into the house. “You need help finding the zip-ties? We’re coming!”

*

Two minutes later they’ve found Shiro in the throng of frat bros and dates, talking to Adam over at the DJ booth. Well, talking is the reflexive term. But this is always the case with Shiro and Adam, who are separately both wonderful people but have been pretty much married since high school.

Beside Lance, Keith is looking increasingly cagey beside and helplessly out of place. Nothing’s gonna help that except alcohol, at this point.

Still. He knows the only thing keeping Keith here is the promise of two hundred bucks, and he really hopes that Keith doesn’t decide that’s not enough. Lance is desperate, but he’s not made of money, after all.

“You ready?” Shiro asks, once Lance has detached him from Adam.

“Ready freddie,” says Lance holding out his arm with false enthusiasm.

Keith stands across from Lance, hands shoved in his pockets, jostling slightly as the crowd pushes up against his back. He looks uncomfortable as all get out, but he doesn’t say a word as he hesitantly places a slender wrist over Lance’s.

His skin is warm. For a breath, Lance can feel his pulse between them.

“Getting cold feet?” Lance asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say and fuck it, he’s nervous. There’s no missing the way Keith is eyeing the entire place, like he’d rather die then remain here another minute. If he bolts, Lance is fucked.

So naturally, Lance has to go and poke fun of him. Like an idiot.

“No,” Keith says, chin jutting out, shaking his head stubbornly, “No cold feet. I need that money for my indiegogo documentary fund, so it’s ride or die from here on out.”

“Ride or die?” Lance sputters. “Can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Lance, have you ever drunk a fifth before?”

“Have you?” Lance shoots back.

Keith shakes his head. “My point exactly. Tonight might be a blur of alcohol and general hilarity, but tomorrow we are going to wake up with half-dead livers and we’re going to regret every choice we made to get us to this point.”

“I thought you weren’t having cold feet.”

“I’m not,” Keith says stubbornly. “I’m just saying.”

“It sounds like you’re having cold feet,” Lance teases, and he probably shouldn’t be trying to piss off his date.

Shiro’s eyes widen, darting between the two of them. “Uh, Lance, maybe we should—”

But then Keith’s eyes get all squinty as he outright glares at Lance and that’s…yeah. That’s definitely doing something for Lance. What the fuck.

“Shiro,” Keith says, holding Lance’s gaze. “Zip-tie this motherfucker to me before I change my mind.”

Shiro pulls the zip-tie tight, their wrists jostling a bit as they adjust to the sudden pressure and proximity. “I now declare you Pledge and Pledge-Date. Welcome to Date & a Fifth, it’s been nice knowing you. Allow my fiancé to help you pick your poison, kids.”

Gleefully, Lance lifts their wrists to rub his hands together as he eyes the shelf of fifths behind Adam’s head. He can already feel his organs beginning to pickle.

He glances at Keith, who’s looking at their wrists. “I don’t have much of a preference, you can do the honors of choosing.”

Not that there is much variety in the selection; most of the fifths have already been chosen. Still, Lance is a gentlemen. His mama raised him right.

But when Keith points to a rather horrifying-looking bottle of strawberry vodka, Lance immediately regrets it. Strawberry vodka? Has Keith even had alcohol, period? Lance’s hand hangs limp as Keith sets about unscrewing the bottle, taking a sniff, nose wrinkling.

“Strawberry vodka,” Lance mutters. “Why in god’s name did you not go for the honey whiskey? Strawberry. Vodka.”

“I like strawberries,” Keith snaps. “Sue me.”

“That’s not—,” Lance starts, and then stops, huffing in frustration. It feels a bit pointless to explain that strawberry vodka does not taste like actual strawberries, not when Keith’s already opened the bottle. Not when they’re very obviously going to drink it anyway.

God help him, he should have pre-gamed and shown up wasted.

“What,” Keith says in this light, playful tone, and now it’s his turn to smile all cocky, and shit that also does things for Lance, does very confusing, very gay things for him, “getting cold feet?”

“Hardly,” Lance snorts. “I was just wondering how long you’re going to stand there before you stop standing there and start drinking. Or are you chicken?”

Again, it’s like Lance is inviting the opportunity to get a drink thrown on him.

Around them, Ariana Grande is pumping on the speakers, wailing about being so into you, and yeah, Lance doesn’t necessarily mean to raise a skeptical eyebrow but Keith kind of invites it, the teasing. Mostly because—Lance knows he can take it, and deliver it back in spades.

He’s still taken completely by surprise, though, when Keith’s eyes narrow, he tugs Lance closer by the wrist as if to say watch this, and lifts the bottle to his lips in one fluid motion, taking long pull of the strawberry vodka. Doesn’t sputter. Doesn’t cough. His throat flexes as he swallows and he’s still glaring at Lance, even as he hands back the bottle with a: “You fucking wish.”

Well then.

For the sake of not gaping a second longer, Lance snatches the bottle, takes a drink of his own and. Fuck. It’s disgusting. It’s somehow so much more gross than he could have ever predicted and Lance is possibly going to die tonight.

He pulls away, smacking his lips. “Shit, that’s vile.”

Somewhere in the midst of him taking his drink, Keith had stepped away from him, the distance now obvious because of the fact that they’re zip-tied together: to not be standing close means their wrists dangle awkwardly midair.

“Get used to it,” Keith says, snatching the bottle back. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

Between the two of them, it doesn’t even look like they’ve even made a dent in the bottle. Keith takes another swig, and Lance forces himself not to follow the line of his working throat as he does.

 _Yeah_ , Lance surmises, _definitely gonna die tonight._

“C’mon,” he says darkly, “let’s go mingle so no one thinks we’re trying to purposefully die of alcohol poisoning before the party even ends.”

*

The party quickly descends from casual drinking and small talk to what’s warming up to be an all-out hookup palooza, if the amount of couples alternating between dancing, grinding and making out is anything to go by.

All inhibitions blown to the fucking wind. Not that there were inhibitions to begin with. This is a frat, after all.

Lance chews at the inside of his lip, eyes flicking about the crowd of drunk people. Next to him is Keith, who’s asking Pidge about their major. Maybe it’s the alcohol—okay, it’s definitely the alcohol, filling up his belly with the warm aftermath of vodka burn—but Lance just kind of starts looking at Keith. Really looking at Keith. It’s a mix of trying to place where he knows Keith from, and just needing to quietly acknowledge the fact that Keith is really….really good looking. Sue him.

A little ways away from them, Hunk and Shay are swaying back and forth, giggling and kissing in intervals. Shiro’s got his arm wrapped around Adam’s waist and is nuzzling his ear as Adam swats playfully at him. Even Matt and Pidge—though siblings—look relatively relaxed, leaning back on the leather couch and passing their own bottle of whiskey back and forth.

Meanwhile, Lance is all too aware of the way that Keith is maintaining a careful distance away from him, body turned towards Pidge. The sort of body language that very clearly communicates to Lance (even in his slightly inebriated state), that if Lance were to try and make a move—kiss him, ask him to dance, anything—Keith would respond with that earlier just-saw-a-Cockroach expression.

Not that Lance would make a move. Not that Lance even wants to.

After all, Keith is only here because Lance is paying him two hundred bucks. Those were the terms: Keith goes to the party, Lance pays him. Nothing more.

Feeling awkward and unsure of what to do or say to make this as painless for Keith as possible, Lance resigns himself to nursing the bottle of strawberry vodka until he is well and pleasantly buzzed.

It doesn’t really matter if he’s not having a good time. The second he became desperate enough to pay someone to be his date was the moment that he sealed his fate: making tonight the most awkward party of his entire life.

Still, it’s moments like this that Lance can’t help but lament being single, watching everyone around him move and laugh and touch like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

The thing is—he enjoys being single most of the time. And dating can be fun and spontaneous. Sleeping around even more-so, when the sex is good. But sometimes he think it’d be nice to just. Have someone. Which sounds so stupid in his head, but doesn’t change the fact that he wants it. A Someone. Not for the sake of having a hookup partner at parties, but rather for the sake of not having to feel so fucking awkward at what is very clearly meant to be a previously-established-relationship sort of shindig.

Of course, Lance had to be the idiot to go and ask a fucking stranger to be his date.

He’s a zoned out and hazy, tuning in and out of conversations around him like a faulty radio, when he picks up on Keith, saying to Pidge, “—yeah, astrophysics isn’t really my passion in the same way that documentary filmmaking is, but like, if I had to pick something, it’d be that. Astro-Phys 125 this semester has been just incredible and I really think that—”

“WAIT A SECOND.”

Lance lurches into standing position, tugging Keith with him. The room doesn’t tilt, but he’s aware of a shakier center of gravity, that’s for fucking sure. “You’re in astro-phys 125?”

“Uh.” Both Pidge and Keith are looking at Lance like he just sprouted three extra limbs. “Yes?”

“Oh my god.”

Realization dawns on Lance, and he blinks stupidly. He knew he’d seen Keith somewhere. Holy fuck, it makes so much sense now. Enough that it explains why he wouldn’t be able to recognize Keith immediately. Lance flops back down on the couch again. “Oh my god? You’re in my class.”

“Uh, yeah?” Keith nods, eyes wide. “That’s how we know each other. Isn’t that why you asked me tonight?”

“Hold the phone,” says Lance, brain churning in stops and starts. “Keith. Keith with a K. Oh my _god_.”

“Is there another way to spell Keith?” Pidge interjects.

“You’re Kogane. K. Kogane,” Lance says, then pokes Keith in the chest. “You’re the top grade in the class. You’re the asshole I’ve been struggling to beat all fucking semester for the highest GPA.”

Lance doesn’t necessarily mean to put it like that, but he can’t help it. He’d broken his back studying for the first midterm and quizzes, and was preparing for the fight of his life as the semester heads to a close. Professors who post the list of grades by class ranking are cruel to a point, but no matter how hard Lance studies, goes to office hours, pulls all-nighters in what is one of his core major classes, he hasn’t been able to knock K. Kogane out of that number one spot.

And now here he is in the flesh, Lance’s sworn academic nemesis, zip-tied to Lance’s wrist.

Lance gapes wordlessly.

Motherfucker.

“You seriously didn’t know who I was?” It’s probably the alcohol already working its chemistry in Lance’s system, but Keith’s cheeks look oddly pink. “I. I thought that was why you approached me.”

“Wait.” Lance’s brain feels like it’s glitching. “Are you saying you knew _me_?”

There’s a severely awkward pause as they Keith and Lance stare at each other in abject disbelief, and then Pidge just starts laughing, a full body cackle that has Lance swiveling his head around and delivering them a glare.

“Hoo boy,” Pidge snickers. “Tonight is gonna be hilarious.”

“Give me that bottle,” Keith grumbles, and before Lance can even stupidly say ‘what bottle’ Keith’s prying the strawberry vodka from his hands, taking what looks to be his third or fourth swig.

*

There’s this funny thing that happens to the concept of time when one is drinking. Time starts acting weird. It speeds up in places, and lingers in others, moves in stops and starts.

Lance knows he’s fucked by how he decidedly loses track of all of it, begins telling time by the instances he hears a recognizable top 40 song on the speakers, and doesn’t go further from there. He’s drunk. He knows he’s drunk. And it shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that he has quickly joined the mass of people who are just as shitfaced as he is inevitably beginning to feel.

“Is this Lady Gaga?” Lance asks loudly, grabbing Pidge’s shoulder because this is serious. This is so serious. “If they play Lady Gaga, I will cry. Oh my god. Pidge. I think this is Lady Gaga.”

“It’s actually Kesha, so I think your tear ducts are in the clear,” they respond wryly, laughing when Lance sags against them in relief.

“Lance,” Pidge says after a moment, ducking out from under Lance’s grasp, “No offense but, where’d you find this guy?”

“What guy?”

“Your date.”

“Oh, Keith? K. Kogane?” Lance giggles, then pauses. “Wait. Where is Keith?”

“Zip-tied to your wrist, dumbass,” Pidge snickers, then wrinkles their nose, and when Lance swivels around to find Keith talking to Adam a few feet away from him, he nearly tips right over. Pidge grabs his shoulders, righting him. “Good god, you’re drunk. You total lightweight.”

“ME? I’M HEAVY. I’M SO HEAVY,” Lance croons. Then, like his brain skipped back and replayed the last thirty seconds of this conversation: “I found Keith on the street. He makes movies!”

“Yeah, I know. I was talking to him. He’s kind of a nerd.” Pidge’s nose wrinkles again, but they’re smiling. “It’s cute though, seeing you get out there. He seems to like you an awful lot.”

“What?” Lance’s mouth is starting to do that thing where it feels all soft and mushy, less teeth and lips, more putty. He wants to continue asking Pidge what the hell they mean, but he’s interrupted by a colossal cheer from the dance floor, bringing him whirling around, brain now clicking forward to catch on Pidge’s words. “Wait, Pidge—”

“Have fun you two.” Pidge winks, and they’re slipping back into the crowd after Matt, who’s gone after the source of all the noise, which seems as confusing to Lance because the noise seems everywhere. Everything is so much right now.

Lance makes to follow them but suddenly the floor goes sideways, just a little crooked that he totters unsteadily and _woah_.

“Woah, there.” Lance’s fingers are flexing in a super soft t-shirt. Wow. Maybe the softest shirt ever. What magical material is this made of? And better yet, who’s wearing it?

He looks up and groans.

“Ugh. Not you.”

Keith’s frowns. “Sorry to be such a disappointment.”

Wait. Lance didn’t mean it like that. Shit.

“Didn’t mean it like what?” Keith raises an eyebrow, and it’s only then that Lance realizes he’s saying things out loud. Damn. He really is drunk, possibly getting drunker.

He squints, parsing out words that will hopefully make sense. “I mean like, you’re my enemy. Just not tonight. Tonight,” he leans close, and grins conspiratorially, “you’re my two hundred dollar date.”

Keith’s cheeks look pink again, but the line of his mouth remains flat as he says, “I’m so honored to be welcomed into the frat.”

He looks so grumpy and nonplussed, Lance is helpless but to laugh. God help him, his date actually has a sense of humor. “Have a drink, dude. I promise you’ll perk right up.”

He doesn’t know how the bottle ended up in his hand again, and truthfully, he’s positive that the bottle refilled itself because what the fuck, they’re barely a third into it. Lance glares at the bottle. Then he presses it to Keith’s chest. “Guard this alcohol for me, K. Kogane.”

Keith nods gravely, mouth twitching. “With my life.”

If it weren’t for the fact that he had monetary incentive, and the fact that he’s most definitely three sheets to the wind by now, Lance could swear his date was actually having a good time.

*

So like, Lance loves frat life. Frat life is fun. He’s definitely had more friends now than he’s had in a large portion of his life, and Lance—who is by nature a pretty damn social creature—has plenty of social time, is hardly ever home. That’s a good thing. He gets to hang out with Hunk, and by proxy, Pidge. Shiro is kind of like the stoic older brother figure Lance never had, and even Adam’s pretty cool—even if he can, at times, be a little intimidating. But then, super hot guys are.

Lance has friends. He likes most of the people in his frat.

Most.

There are some frat bros, however, that remind Lance of just why Keith looked like he’d rather die than attend a party with him here.

Sendak is one of those frat bros.

Referred to by most girls Lance has seen interact with as _skeevy_ , Sendak pretty much embodies the kind of frat bro that everyone hates—even the frat bros themselves. An amalgam of jokes that manage to toe the line with racism, sexism, and a whole other list of inappropriate topics that Sendak seems to find funny. He’s also, unfortunately, pledge master, which means he’s in charge of hazing.

According to Pidge, the University doubled down on hazing a few years back, when a few dudes in Sendak’s pledge class caught hypothermia in some dumbass stunt up in the mountains during a blizzard. Rigid policy and crackdowns, however, haven’t stopped Sendak from continuing to be a huge dick to all pledges. Shiro, the frat president, thank fucking god, doesn’t tolerate hazing. So Sendak can’t do anything explicit to punish pledges, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to make their lives a living hell just the same.

Bottom line, he’s a dick. Sober or not, Lance doesn’t like him. Which is why he’s so baffled as to how he started talking to him and Keith. There’s a girl zip-tied to his wrist and she looks…wrecked. Like she really needs to either throw up or lie down or both, all smudged eyeliner and unfocused gaze. She’s tottering on the spot, and keeps giggling cutely at Sendak, though he’s not saying anything funny.

It’s with an extra lurch of discomfort when he realizes that Sendak has struck up conversation with Keith, the hulking height of him angled the way it is right before he’s about to insult one of the pledges. Lance recognizes it because in week one Sendak took to calling Hunk ‘lard-ass’ and for a brief second, Hunk had looked like he was going to cry.

So, yeah. Sendak. Bad news. The room is a smear of color and noise, and Lance is trying to figure out just why they’re sitting here talking to Sendak. And where’s Shiro? He’s usually a good social buoy to have around when Sendak is being Sendak, he reins him in. Where’s Hunk, for that matter? He starts to feel a bit adrift at sea in the swath of smoke and sweat tinged air, grasping about for something to bring him back to total and complete alertness when—

“Wait a minute, I remember you!” Sendak bursts into ugly, loud laughter, pivots around to leer in Lance’s direction like there’s an inside joke he just guessed the punchline to. “Lancelot, you should have told me that you brought the fucking uni-bomber to our little soiree.”

Keith goes very still.

“Don’t you worry Kogane, I remember,” Sendak snickers, and the girl zip-tied to his wrist seems to take that as a cue to cackle like a hyena alongside him. “Kogane here was in ROTC freshman year. One minute, he was chill, good cadet, showed a lot of promise. The next, he had a total fucking breakdown, took off for who the fuck knows where. So fucking extra.”

Next to Lance, Keith is absolutely rigid.

Lance might not know a single thing about this guy, where he’s from, what he’s done, what kind of ‘fucking breakdowns’ he may or may not have had.

None of that matters, because Lance knows the look of someone who wants nothing more than to sink into the floor out of sheer humiliation. The look of someone cornered, trying not to be seen as they are hunted, trying not to move even though they desperately want to run.

Keith’s entire person has shut down, like the off switch was flipped, face expressionless. Lance can feel the skin over Keith’s knuckles pulling tight against his hand, as Keith’s hand curl into a fist at his side.

“Hey, why don’t you shut up,” Lance means to say, but his mouth is kind of stupid and slack right now, so he’s not really sure if he says anything other than staring dumbly as Sendak continues to leer at Keith.

“What was it that finally made you snap, huh cadet?” Sendak asks. “Was it the orphan abandonment issues or the fact that you couldn’t even fit in in the only student organization that would take your sociopath ass?”

Lance isn’t quite sure what happens next. He wants to say he knows, but time does one of those weird skip-aheads again.

One minute he’s looking at Keith, who’s got his hands tucked tight around against his sides, and is looking down at the floor.

One minute, he’s looking at Keith. The next, Sendak is yelling, and he’s covered in what smells suspiciously like…

“What the fuck?” Sendak yells, and Lance turns because who did that, who dumped their drink on Sendak, because Lance seriously owes them a high-five. But then he glimpses the slightly emptier vodka bottle in his hand, sees the thunderstruck expression on Keith’s face.

Drunk though he may be, Lance knows how to put two and two together.

By the time he does, Sendak’s fist is well on its way to connecting with his face.

With a sharp jerk of his wrist, sort of like a marionette being pulled by its strings, Lance is yanked out of the path of broken noses. There’s a sickening crunch as Sendak’s fist connects with the plaster wall where Lance’s face had been seconds ago, and Sendak lets out a bellicose howl of rage.

 _Hell no_ , Lance thinks, riled and ready to retaliate. He makes to lunge at Sendak, because honestly fuck that guy, Lance has got a solid month of resentment to take out on him, he’s ready to fucking go, and he finally got his excuse—before something that Lance can only describe as a friendly tree trunk wraps around his waist and lifts him clean off his feet.

Not one of Hunk’s better executed bear hugs, but it’s not until Hunk starts moving that Lance realizes he’s being held back.

“Hey! Let me go! Let. Me. Go!” Lance struggles, but the fact of the matter is that Lance is kind of wasted, and Hunk is stronger than him. “Let me at him!”

“No can do, buddy,” Hunk says in his ear. “I love you a bit too much to watch you get pulverized tonight. Though I gotta say I admire your chutzpah.”

Behind Hunk, Lance can hear someone—Shiro possibly?—talking in a very soothing voice to what sounds like an extremely violent Sendak, who’s screaming, “YOU’RE DEAD, MCCLAIN. YOU HEAR ME? YOU’LL NEVER SET FOOT IN THIS FRATERNITY AGAIN.”

“OH YEAH?!” Lance hollers, tries another tactic of escape, going deadweight, but Hunk literally carries him out of the room, limbs flailing., before he gets the chance to try.

Lance dedicates all his energy into his strongest pout, as soon as Hunk unceremoniously sets him down, but Hunk looks away. “You got him from here?”

“Yeah, thanks Hunk. Oh and—the girl tied to Sendak’s wrist looks like she’s in bad shape. Keep an eye on her, okay?”

“Sure thing, dude.”

Lance makes to lunge back into the frat house so he can kill Sendak, but is yanked back clothes line style by his wrist, a wrenching that’s borderline painful as he’s dragged out of the living room down the hallway and out the door to—

“—fucking crazy? He’s like twice your size!”

Lance blinks, vision clearing a bit. It’s Keith. Keith, single handedly marching Lance out the back door out of the frat house and onto the lawn. Not that Lance can resist much, because the grass is sort of tilting like it wants to caress his face and part of him just wants to take a nap now that he can’t kill Sendak anymore. But he can’t take a nap, because Keith’s still marching straight ahead, and Lance has to follow him. Because they’re still tied together at the wrist.

“Hey,” says Lance, and then, when Keith doesn’t respond. “ _Hey_.”

Keith stops short, so abruptly Lance nearly collides with him. He raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Why’d you pull me out of the party?”

“I didn’t think you wanted to ruin your chances of being in the frat. Or like, living to see another day. For reasons that I cannot fathom, you seem to like it there. So. It seemed stupid that you’d get kicked out because of me.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t get kicked out for other reasons.”

“You’re welcome.” Keith scoffs.

“Um, what would I be thanking you for? I was saving _you._ What was that back there anyhow?” Lance frowns. “Why was he saying all that shit to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Keith turns away, marching again. “Whatever he said, you didn’t have to go and dump the goddamn vodka on his head.”

“Is that what I did? I thought I shattered the bottle on his skull.”

Keith wordlessly points and—sure enough, Lance’s free hand is still clutching the fifth. He raises it to eye level. There’s still a solid half of it left. He giggles. “Well, how about that.”

Keith shifts on his feet. “We should get out of here. If Sendak comes out…”

“How are you so worried? You are way too sober right now. Take a shot.”

Keith gives him a look. “I’m plenty drunk. I just handle it better than you.”

“Take a shot, chickenshit.”

The challenge in Lance’s voice settles it. Keith snatches the bottle back and takes another heady swig. Lance forces himself to look away, even as Keith smacks his lips.

Especially as Keith smacks his lips.

“You know. This stuff isn’t half bad once you get used to it.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely drunk,” Lance laughs, swaying a bit himself. “We should—”

“Get out of here? Yeah.”

 

*

They end up wandering into a CVS just off campus a few blocks later. Mostly because Lance desperately needs food. He’s warm, at the very least. But the corners of his vision are beginning to blur, his body in that sluggish lethargy that he knows translates to: need food to counteract all the not food sloshing around in his stomach.

The lights in the CVS feel blinding, hypnotic in a way that the party somehow wasn’t. Lance stands, blinking, in the middle of the aisle where feminine hygiene products and condoms are kept. He frowns. Huh.

“We need to get scissors.” Lance says. “We need. Scissors.”

“Scissors aren’t food.” Keith says, and it doesn’t look like he’s holding his liquor that well either. “Why would you wanna eat scissors.”

“Not to eat! For the—“ Lance, unable to recall the word, flaps their wrists up and down like the beginning verse of ring around the rosie. “For this!”

“Ah.” Says Keith in a wise and ponderous voice. “That.”

Lance spots one of those gigantic bins of bouncy balls, picks up one with a cartoon cow on it. “Hey—look at this!”

He slams it hard on the floor and watches it fly fifteen feet in the air.

Keith snatches it from the air with his one hand.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

Lance shrugs, grabs another bouncy ball, and does it again.

This time, when Keith catches it, his lips are twitching, and he throws it down on the floor, twice as hard as Lance, making Lance catch it this time.

They make it a game.

“So how do you know Shiro?” _Bounce._

“You know Shiro?”

 _Bounce._ “Yeah, ROTC.” Keith cringes. “He’s a nice guy.”

“He is. One of the actual decent frat bros. Frat bro with a heart of gold.”

_Bounce._

“His…fiancé?”

“Adam.”

_Bounce._

“Yeah, how’d they meet.”

“Grew up together, I think. They’ve been like that for as long as I’ve been here, and everyone that ever talks about them does it in the forever sort of way. High school sweethearts, childhood friends, the whole shebang.”

“Adam seems nice.”

“Oh, Adam’s great. He’s apparently helped Shiro through a lot of shit, and he’s so supportive. Plays some mad beer pong too.”

“Must be nice.”

“Nice to play beer pong?” _Bounce._

“No like, nice have a person like that.”

Lance throws the ball down particularly hard, and this time it bounces up so high that it knocks into one of the plaster foam panels in the ceiling, which falls down twenty feet to the floor with a hideous SPLAT.

“Oh fuck,” Lance swears, and he feels more than hears Keith shaking with helpless laughter at his side. “Oh fuck, we gotta go.”

In the security mirrors he can see the exasperated cashier walking towards their aisle, and now it’s Lance’s turn to play puppeteer as he drags Keith out of the store.

Keith—who Lance has seen barely crack a smile the whole night—is how laughing helplessly, contagiously, trying to keep up with Lance but mostly tripping after him, clutching the bottle of vodka to his stomach.

When Lance stops around the corner a block away, Keith only barely begins to catch his breath.

There’s a bit of ashy plaster dust in his hair from the ceiling. Before he gives it a second thought, Lance reaches out, brushes it off of his bangs, until Keith’s hair is fully black again.

Keith’s laughter peters out. He looks up at Lance with wide, dark eyes. Shifts imperceptibly closer.

“Holy fuck, I’m hungry,” Lance blurts out. “Are you hungry? I’m starving. And it would probably help with the whole sobering up thing, getting some food.”

Keith smirks. “Already talking about sobering up, I see. Giving up so early?”

“Fuck you, I’m totally in it to win it. I just need to take a break and put food in me before I actually die. Or throw up. Or both.”

“Well, seeing as it’s like…” Keith glances at his phone. “Like two a.m., I’m not sure there’s many options that aren’t McDonald’s.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Lance says. “There’s this magical beautiful fantastic diner. Open 24 hours. Milk shakes. Fried mac n cheese balls that will blow your freaking mind. Wanna check it out?”

“I’ve never had fried mac n cheese balls,” Keith says gently, a small smile breaking out over his face.

*

A few hours ago, Keith Kogane was some guy on the street.

Now, Keith’s still some guy on the street, only he’s zip-tied to Lance’s wrist, and officially along for the ride tonight.

After a rather awkward encounter that involved taking a piss in the bushes and politely looking the other way while each of them did their business, Lance is starting to actually believe that the worst of this night, the most awkward parts, at least, could actually be over.

“How’d you find this place?” Keith asks, as Lance shoulders his way in through the double doors at Blue’s Diner.

“Best-kept secret on campus, this place,” Lance answers. “Most people like In-N-Out but, I dunno man, I love the atmosphere here.”

It’s two or three in the morning by this point, which means the place is pretty much empty except for a few college kids. Lance leads Keith over to the corner booth, with the long seat that curves in a half circle. Without protest, Keith slides right into the seat across from Lance, their wrists jostling.

Blue’s isn’t exactly a campus hangout, in that it’s cheap as hell but the atmosphere isn’t near bougie enough for most of the hipster demographic at their university. Lance actually bussed tables here a little while back. His scholarship money hadn’t come through and he’d needed some way to make rent, and the owner had taken Lance on and had him help out whenever Lance’s full course load and schedule allowed it.

This diner is normally a place for regulars—grad students who take up residence at the milkshake counter while slaving over their laptops and grading papers, and the constantly revolving cycle of old-timers who order the same thing every time.

Little-known secret was that Blue’s was the place to go when you were drunk. While the taco stand on the outside of campus couldn’t be knocked, Blue’s diner had the best drunk food in the world. Lance would and had bet money on it.

Plus, he just likes the atmosphere. The menu scrawled out on a chalkboard over the front counter that you had to read to know what you wanted. The interchanging pie and ice cream flavors that were always different with no predictable pattern—be it day of the week or season.

Coran, the only waiter who seems just crazy enough to work the graveyard shifts, comes gliding over on the uniform roller skates, blinking at the sight of them. “Well hello Lance, fancy seeing you around here. Bit late, don’t you think?”

“We’re drunk,” says Lance, by way of explanation.

“I can see that.” Coran’s burnished orange and quite impressively sized mustache twitches in amusement, but he doesn’t protest the announcement, rather holding up his notepad and pen with a resigned, “What’ll it be lads?”

“Two plates of fried mac ’n cheese balls for me and…” Lance’s vision is blurring a bit too much to read the menu, so he goes by memory alone. “A coffee oreo milkshake for me.”

“And what about you, chap?”

“Uh. I’ll have the same,” Keith mutters. It looks like he’s having the same problem with reading the chalkboard from here as well.

“Coming right up gents. I’ll have Alf bring out some waters for you as well, how’s that sound?”

“Fantastic. You’re a godsend. Thanks, Coran,” Lance sighs, letting his body melt a little into the cushioned seat.

Keith watches Coran go with an amused expression. “He seems used to this sort of behavior.”

“Yeah,” Lance explains, a bit embarrassed, “This is my drunchies go-to.”

“Drunchies?”

“Yeah. Drunk munchies?” Lance gives Keith a look. “You’ve….you’ve been drunk before, haven’t you?”

“Obviously.”

“IDK dude!” Lance holds up his hands, obviously at that point where speaking in text abbreviations feels easier. “It doesn’t seem like you get out a lot, just thought I’d ask.”

“I don’t. But I have been drunk. I just didn’t know there was a name for being hungry when you’re shitfaced other than ‘hungry.’”

“I mean, you’ve been hangry, right?”

“Hangry?”

“Oh my god.” Keith’s so oddly oblivious to colloquialisms that it’s almost—okay it’s _really_ —cute.

“Sorry,” Keith says, eyebrows pinching together in the middle as he frowns.

“What are you saying sorry for?”

Keith frowns further, looking apprehensive. “I don’t know.”

“Then stop apologizing. We’re getting mac n cheese balls, dude. There’s nothing to be sorry for when mac n cheese balls are involved.”

“Mac n cheese balls sound like it’s either the worst or best food.”

“Trust me when I say it’s the best. Like. Blow your freaking mind best. Orgasm in your mouth best. Just you wait.”

“Did you just say ‘orgasm in your mouth.’”

“And I’ll say it again!” Lance lifts his free hand to cup around his mouth.

“ORGASM IN YOUR MOUTH.”

“Stop,” Keith groans, head slumping down on the linoleum of the table. “You’re so embarrassing.”

“Thanks.” Lance grins, because even though Keith is saying that, something about the shape of his mouth says he doesn’t really mean it.

Not that Lance is looking at Keith’s mouth. Not really. Not even when Keith turns his head a bit, cheek still pressed to the table, to glare at Lance.

Nope. Definitely not looking at Keith’s mouth while Keith’s glaring. That does absolutely nothing for Lance. Not one iota of a thing.

For the sake of distraction, Lance glances out the window to the shiny street, only to catch the reflection of them—of him and Keith—from their semi-bedraggled hair to inebriated postures and down to their arms.

In the reflection of the shiny glass window, their hands are stretched over the table, linked together and it almost looks romantic—like two teeny boppers in a Normal Rockwell painting. Well, romantic minus the whole being shitfaced and zip-tied thing.

Still, Lance lets his wilder imagination run a bit. Because in the bright diner lights and the red leather booth, and that twinkling magic that only comes at two a.m., Lance sure feels like it could be something.

Coran probably has scissors behind the counter, and there’s a serrated butter knife just to Lance’s right that could easily be put to use on the zip-tie, but he doesn’t point it out. Maybe because it’ll make a good story someday, and Lance always likes having those in his arsenal.

Or maybe because he also kind of likes the weirdness of it all.

(And maybe he likes the warmth of Keith’s wrist against his, too.)

WHAM.

Both Keith and Lance jump, only to find Pidge and Hunk standing over them, faces pressed in stupid shapes against the glass. Then they’re racing for the door, elbowing each other to get to the booth first as the diner door swings open, bells clattering.

Lance leans over on instinct as Pidge and Hunk make their way over. “I’m apologizing in advance for what’s about to happen.”

“Whaddya mean?” Keith asks. “I met your friends earlier. They’re cool.”

“They were tipsy, at best. Now, they’re wasted, not so different from us. This is like their chaotic evil alter-egos on crack. Like I said, I’m s—”

Lance’s explanation is cut off as Hunk wraps him in a hug so tight

Lance practically feels his ribs crack. By the time he lets Lance go, with a, “MY BUDDY. MY BEST FRIEND. MY ROCK—” Lance is forced to scooch over as Pidge jabs his side with their pointy fingers, saying, “Move over nerd.”

“Can’t you guys go sit somewhere else?” Lance pleads. “There are like. Tables everywhere.”

“Bruh, we are here for you. For moral support.”

“Moral support?” Keith asks, raising an eyebrow.

“How dare you run off like that without telling us where you were going!”

“We thought you were _dead_.”

“Y’all knew I left with Keith! Relax!” Lance laughs.

It’s like they hadn’t even realized Keith was there before Lance said his name. Both Pidge and Hunk swivel around, blinking like disoriented owls, staring at Keith, and then attack.

“KEITH. BUDDY. WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

“We were worried _sick_.”

“What,” says Keith, before Hunk wraps him up in a rib-cracking bear hug and honestly, bless him for even trying to understand.

 _Just go with it_ , Lance mouths at Keith, and tries to hold back both his laughter and also his immense embarrassment.

He loves his friends to death. But they can be, well. A little intense, for lack of a better word.

“Sorry it took so long for us to find you guys,” Hunk explains. “The party was insane, and Sendak that _buttface_ , was being a pain in the ass. But we got that girl you mentioned to ride home with Shay, so I think she’ll be okay.”

“Thanks,” says Keith.

“There you are.” A warm hand settles on Lance’s shoulder and he turns to see Shiro and Adam smiling down at them. “Got room for two more?”

Which is how the table-for-two quickly becomes a table-for-six, and the two orders of mac n cheese becomes about ten. While Lance is kind of mortified that his friends are here and bent on embarrassing and making him seem as uncool as possible, he watches with silent glee as Keith takes a bite of a mac n cheese ball when all the food arrives, and then promptly shoves it whole in his mouth, eyes brightening.

“These are good,” he nods at Lance, and shoves two more in.

Lance beams at him.  

“So, Keith,” Pidge leans forward conspiratorially towards Keith, after at least half the mac n cheese balls are consumed, “Do you or do you not believe there are real X-files, and what exactly are your intentions with our young maiden Lance and his dowry.”

Lance chokes on his milkshake. “Oh my god. Can you be chill for like, two seconds, I’m begging you, god, please.”

“Listen! You’re a strapping young gentleman and any man or woman or non-binary person would be lucky to dick down on a drunken date. We just gotta make sure it’s the right person.”

“Are you even up there, God?” Lance raises his eyes to the sky, ignoring the happy kick to the heart he feels when he can pick out Keith’s laughter from everyone else. “Please free me from this mortal coil.”

“You know he paid me, right?” Keith asks. “Like, I appreciate your interest but I’m sort of an escort tonight.”

“Oh my god,” Hunk whisper screams, clapping his hands. “This is just like Pretty Woman.”

“Good movie,” Adam pipes in.

“ _He is not a sex worker, Hunk_.” Aaand now Lance actually wants to die. “I’m going to the jukebox, and I’m taking Keith with me.”

“Yeah uh, about that, you’re still zip-tied together, why?” asks Adam.

“Because we committed to finishing that goddamn fifth,” Keith answers before Lance can. “And our mamas didn’t raise no quitters.”

“So…you’re going to die of alcohol poisoning out of sheer spite to each other.” Shiro nods, like he’s not even surprised. “Good to know.”

Lance rolls his eyes and drags Keith over to the jukebox to the left of the counter, a giant clunky and completely archaic relic, but the best thing about Blue’s diner (besides the mac n cheese balls, of course).

“Got any requests?” Lance asks Keith, fishing his pockets for quarters. “You know, besides like, Linkin Park.”

“Shut up, Lance.”

Chuckling, Lance puts in his coinage—one dollar gets you five songs. He doesn’t have to even give it much thought—punches in the first four and then hits ‘random’ for the last pick, figuring the jukebox will work its own magic.

A jaunty tune begins to pour from the jukebox. Lance walks them back over to the table, whistling along to the sound of Tom Jones beginning to croon.

Hunk slams a fist on the table, eyes wild. “Lance, no.”

“Lance, yes!” Lance crows back.

Keith looks just plain confused. “Is this What’s New Pussycat?”

“Yes.” Everyone collectively groans.

The song ends, and then it begins all over again, and Keith’s confusion increases.

“You selected What’s New Pussycat four times? Why?”

“It’s an inside joke of ours,” Lance explains. “Haven’t you seen that one comedy routine? About the guy in the diner with the jukebox and—” He trails off at Keith’s totally lost expression. “Never mind, we’ll add it to the

list.”

“What list?”

“The list of things I have to show you so we can catch you up to the current time period. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s 2018.”

“I know what year it is.”

“Are you sure? Because I saw those X-files boxsets recently used in your dorm, and I’m pretty sure you still think it’s 1994.”

“Shut up.” Keith tongues the inside of his cheek, going for a half-hearted jab at Lance’s ribs. Lance’s twirls, dodging the blow, but drags Keith with him due to that whole zip-tie thing. They sort of collide, and when Lance reaches out to steady Keith with a hand to his hip, Keith doesn’t really pull away and then Lance just sort of starts swaying with the music as the second loop of What’s New Pussycat really kicks in. Keith still doesn’t fight him. Rather rolls his eyes and sort of let’s Lance twirl the both of them around the diner, like they’re at a debutante ball instead of drunk in a 24-hour diner.

“I cannot believe I’m waltzing to What’s New Pussycat.” Keith shakes his head, followed by, “I can’t believe I’m here.”

“Most people find themselves in a state of disbelief when they get to be this close to me, I know it can be a lot to take in.” Lance leers, rewarded with another glare from Keith that he’s beginning to recognize as less malicious and more fond with each occurrence.

Shiro and Adam join them a few moments later, in a dance that’s a little less silly and a little more intimate, despite the ridiculous song choice. Lance glances the sparkle in Adam’s eyes and the gentle way Shiro supports his back as they go into a dramatic dip and laugh, engagement rings glinting in the diner light, and feels something in his chest ache just a bit.

When at last, the final What’s New Pussycat fades out, the ‘random’ selection begins to play. Harmonies and strumming bass, a steady sweet beat.

 _Well it’s been building up inside of me_  
_For oh I don't know how long_  
_I don't know why_  
_But I keep thinking  
_ _Something's bound to go wrong_

“Wait!” Keith slaps a hand on Lance’s chest, recognition lighting up his whole face. “I know this one.”

“I thought your music experience was limited only to Evanescence and Nickelback?”

“Fuck you,” Keith sniffs. “I have excellent taste.”

“Yeah, for a thirteen year old in their emo phase.”

“Fuck you,” Keith repeats, with a little less heat, the corners of his mouth curling up at the edges, the smile creeping over him like vines beneath concrete, like no matter how hard he tries to tamper it down, it comes through the cracks anyhow.

It gives Lance a special thrill to know he can be the one to see it. Even if it is likely encouraged by alcohol and inebriation and the Beach Boys.

“You know,” Keith says quietly, “You’re not a bad dancer. I expected you to constantly step on my feet.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night.”

“Don’t get too comfortable there, cowboy.”

“Cowboy.” Lance grins, hopelessly endeared.

Suddenly, he twirls Keith with a violent force that sends him almost crashing into the counter, before whipping him right back in to bump against Lance’s chest, throwing a hand up to stop the momentum. That hand curls now in the material of Lance’s shirt, clinging loosely as they tilt a bit more on axis. Keith laughs again, the sound breathy, his body reeling like he’s not use to it.

Lance gets that same ache looking at Keith now as he did looking at Adam and Shiro just minutes ago, only it’s different. It’s different.

“You know,” he finds himself saying, and he’s sobered enough by now that he can’t possibly blame it on the alcohol. “This night isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be.”

“That may be the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night,” Keith parrots, smiling wide, and that ache in Lance’s chest grows and grows.

*

They end up all crammed back in the booth together, and finish the mac n cheese balls by sheer force of will alone. Shiro and Adam beg off because they’re wimps who can’t handle their drunk-food, so in the end it’s mostly Lance and Keith pulling their weight, calling each other wimps and silently daring one another to eat every bite.

And they do. In the end Lance is grateful for it, as full as he is, because by the time they’re finished, he’s nearing a pleasantly tipsy edge again, which feels like safer ground to be on.

Conversation has dwindled down from memes and banal to the longer and more epic tales. The kind of tales that always involve some sort of humiliating past drunk story, usually with Lance in the starring role. Hunk’s launching into another really embarrassing Lance shenanigan story, complete with voices and re-enactments with help from Pidge, when Keith slides a glance over in Lance’s direction, leans up to Lance’s ear and whispers, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

The only downside of being this not-drunk is that there’s no way to explain away the goosebumps that rise on the back of Lance’s neck.

“God, I thought you’d never ask.”

Keith tugs the two of them to standing position, which of course brings their friends into a rousing protest of groans and playful insults.

“Sorry kiddos.” Lance grins. “The adults have got better places to be.”

“And things to do,” Pidge mutters, ducking as Lance swats at the back of their head.

“And,” Lance says pointedly, “for embarrassing the hell out of me, you get to cover the tab.”

“What!?” Hunk explodes. “No fair! I got the last Drunchies tab!”

“I’ll take it,” Shiro sighs. “God knows you kids have no money as it is.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right.” Hunk nods.

Lance swings forward, smacks a kiss on all his friends’ heads, and one to Shiro’s cheek because he just loves Shiro, and Adam too for good measure. “Thanks, Dad and Dad. I owe you one.”

“Get out of here, you mooch.” Shiro waves him off, and then, with a sly smile. “Don’t forget to use protection.”

“Oh my god, I’m going. Shut up.”

“Yeah, Lance, don’t forget to be a gentleman! Prep is important!”

“You are all the worst,” Lance shouts, as Pidge aims a straw wrapper at his head and Hunk goes to chuck a balled up napkin.

Before he can stick around a second longer, Keith is yanking him out of the diner. The two of them run and trip their way down the sidewalk like they’re actually being followed, laughing as their shoulders knock and their feet slap on the pavement beneath a star-speckled sky.

*

Keith and Lance pick up where they left off, and get right back to drinking.

Lance feels that there’s only so much his cells can go through with needing to metabolize strawberry vodka. But then, he’s also finding it increasingly difficult to say ‘no’ when Keith challenges him to do, well, pretty much everything.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why did you rush a frat?” asks Keith. “Like, no offense but, it doesn’t really seem like you fit in there.”

“Uh, thanks?” Lance leans back on his free hand and looks out over campus. Wandering home sort of turned into just wandering in general, and now they’re sitting at the base at the campus mascot, watching the fountains gush.

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way. You just seem like a smart person, with a good head on your shoulders. Frats are so…hive minded. I can’t picture you in one, minute love for partying.”

Lance blinks, shrugs. “I like people. I like the idea of belonging to something. Like, the frats can be shitty, but bottom line I like the social aspect of it. I like the philanthropy. I’m a people person so. I picked out the least heinous frat on campus and went from there. Plus, not all the guys are as bad as Sendak: Shiro’s pretty cool.”

“He seems a bit of an anomaly.”

“I mean,” says Lance, feeling a bit defensive, not sure why. “I could ask you the same thing. Why did you join ROTC, if you didn’t fit in?”

Keith’s expression darkens, and Lance thinks he’s about to get one of those stony silences, but is surprised when Keith responds, “It gave me a purpose. I didn’t—I’ve never really had much direction in my life, external or internal. So when I got to college, and there’s a scholarship for it and everything it seemed. Right.” Keith looks out over the water. “I dunno. I guess then it felt like I might learn something about myself in the midst of it.”

“And did you?”

Ducking his head down, Keith shakes his head, bangs obscuring Lance’s view of his face. “It was soulless, to me. I hated it. I did a full year and then I realized that I was so miserable. Depressed. I didn’t want to be a soldier. Even if I was good at it.”

“And then?”

Keith’s mouth twists. “I took a semester off. Went out into the world for a bit. Spent some time in the desert.”

“Like…what, old man in a shack style?”

He ducks his head and huffs, “Something like that.”

Lance feels the instinct to prod and know more, ask Keith about what he actually did on his semester off, but it occurs to him that it’s rather a personal question. And while Lance pretty much considers himself an open book, he only just met Keith a few hours ago.

Even if it feels like it’s been much longer than that.

*

Somewhere around four a.m., they make their way over to sit on the campus quad, because Lance’s feet are sore and they’ve again progressed to a very specific state of drunkenness where multi-tasking is a bit difficult to do. Between one conversation topic and the next, they plop themselves plop down on the grassy knoll that overlooks everything: from the library to the sociology building, the main auditorium where orientation is held, the dorms clustered together.

Lance—a self-proclaimed lover of healthy amounts of sleep—can’t remember the last time he was up this late. He knows that the occasion was annotated with six cups of coffee and memorizing flashcards for exam prep and wanting nothing more than to die. He’s never been awake for this time of day and wanted to be.

But right now, it’s in the morning, too early for the sun to be up and too late to do anything that seems remotely sane. The time of the day that seems marked by fairy lights and impossible coincidences. The time of day where you find yourself sitting in the grass with someone who all of twelve hours ago wasn’t even a person you knew existed. But now you’re here, and you’re talking, and you can’t imagine going home and being able to sleep a wink.

They’re sitting on this hill, legs crossed, palms pressed into the soft earth, chins tipped up to the sky. Touching in a way that feels not so awkward now as it does familiar, seeing as they’ve been zipped together going on at least six hours. Still, every time Keith’s fingers twitch or accidentally brush Lance’s, it sends something rolling through Lance that he’s not quite sure he knows how to name.

Instead, he tongues the inside of his cheek, picks at the question that’s been lurking in his drunken subconsciousness for hours.

“So, can I ask you something now?”

Keith shrugs, halfway to tipping the bottle to his lips. “Seems only fair.”

“Earlier, at the party. You said you thought I’d asked you out tonight because I’d recognized you from class. Does that—does that mean that you recognized me?”

“Yes.”

“But like…how? It’s a giant class—I mean, I see people’s names on the grade postings, and know people from my discussion section, but I wouldn’t recognize like—99% of the actual faces there.”

Keith takes another, considerably longer, swig of the bottle like he’s steeling himself for something, and then hands it off to Lance. The fifth has been depleted in comparison to how it started the evening, now down to its last inch or so of liquor. Lance, for lack of anything better to do to fill the pause in the conversation, takes a swig as well, welcoming the burn in his throat, giving Keith ample time to gather an answer.

“You sit in front of the class,” says Keith, all matter of fact, as if to say that’s the answer to that question.

“What?”

Keith huffs, impatient, and then pauses, lips pressing a thin line in thought.

He turns to Lance, eyes cloudy with drink, gaze lowered to the ground so that his eyelashes appear like a dark smudge against his cheek.

“You sit in the front,” says Keith. “And you raise your hand constantly, if not to answer questions, then to ask them. You’re so nice, I’ve seen you help people with homework, you talk to everyone, and even when you’re not making noise you’re just—you’re always jiggling your foot or tapping your pencil or drumming your fingers on the desk. You never stop _moving_.”

Suddenly, like he’s said one too many words and now has to repent by silence, Keith’s mouth clamps shut, silence pulling like warm taffy between them.

Lance, for maybe the first time in his entire life, hasn’t got a goddamn clue of what to say.

 _I didn’t know_ doesn’t quite seem to cover it, and _I’m sorry_ seems ill placed. Because as irritated as Keith sounds, like Lance’s mere existence is an annoyance, he doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look angry or even moderately irritated.

He just looks shy, maybe embarrassed. Guilty.

(Which means…)

Lance feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s going into cardiac arrest. He can hear is own heartbeat in his ears, it’s so loud. It’s one thing thinking you’re having a good time with someone who you’d assumed would be miserable on a date with you. But then it’s another thing entirely thinking…thinking— Lance is paying him. But Keith knows Lance from class! Interjections of thought ping around inside his skull and silence any sort of response he may have been cooking up.

And then, somehow, ridiculously, as if Lance’s heart isn’t ready to burst right out of his chest all bloody and still beating like that one scene in Temple of Doom, Keith has to go and look at him.

Really look at him, eyes wide open and clear of alcohol haze, that telltale furrow in his brow that’s stubbornness and confusion all at once, mouth parted like he has to just breathe a bit to get back on track.

 _Fuck_ , Lance thinks, face gone hot all of a sudden. His _mouth_.

“You asked how I recognized you, but that’s the thing,” says Keith. “I can’t _not_.”

Lance falls into him, swears he doesn’t mean to, but then again it’s maybe all he’s wanted to do since this whole crazy night started, so it makes a little bit of sense.

He falls into Keith, swaying and drunk and so off balance he thinks their skulls might crash, but Keith’s lips catch his, soft and open-mouthed.

And they’re kissing.

The tips of their noses brush and they’re kissing.

Keith is warm and they’re kissing. Lance’s heartbeat seems to echo in his very skull, and they’re kissing.

There’s no time for thought or observation. There’s no time to think about the fact that Lance has kissed maybe a handful of people, and slept with even fewer than that, and how for some reason, this feels like a whole other ball park.

There’s no time to think about the way Keith feels against him, exhilarating and terrifying and sort of everything Lance has ever wanted and too good to be true. Like Lance made him up in his head. If he thinks about it, thinks about any of this, he’ll absolutely panic. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t give himself a second to catch his breath, just tips closer and fits their mouths together, firm this time.

And. Yeah. Lance may be three sheets to the wind and not in top form, but it takes all of a few seconds of the kiss to know that even in their drunken state it’s…it’s a pretty fucking fantastic kiss.

Addictive doesn’t even begin to cover the slow drag of Keith’s mouth against his—wet, a little bit sloppy, but this consistent delicious pressure.

Lance is pretty sure he’d be addicted regardless of whether he was drunk or sober. It’s at least good enough that Keith pulling a back a fraction of an inch makes Lance keen slightly, lean in for another taste, chase after that pressure. Keith doesn’t taste like anything particularly new: strawberry vodka and chocolate oreo. So why does Lance feel like he’s going to die if he doesn’t keep that taste close?

Then—then Keith bites down on Lance’s lip, tugs lightly, licks over the spot a second later, and Lance sort of loses his mind. Has to touch Keith now, has to touch Keith or he’s going to burst with it.

He brings both his hands up to trace over the line of Keith’s jaw, tangle in his hair, but bringing his hands up also brings Keith’s hand—still regrettably attached to his wrist—up to clock both of them in the face, jostling them apart. Lance sputters and Keith makes this grunting noise that’s equal parts laughter and annoyance, blinking in confusion like he’s half asleep, and it’s so endearing Lance finds himself kissing Keith all over again.

They leave their zip-tied hands on the hill, fingers tangled, Lance using his one free hand to thumb at the cut of Keith’s cheekbones, angle his chin upwards so their mouths can come together. Again and again and again, nothing to anchor him but the way Keith’s fisted a hand in Lance’s hoodie and is pulling him downward.

 _Where should I touch him?_ Lance feels the innumerable questions spring up like nervous frantic daisies in his belly. He doesn’t do this really—make out with causal strangers on hills in the middle of the night like it’s no big deal. Does Keith want Lance to kiss his neck, or maybe higher, that weirdly sensitive spot just below the ear that Lance had only ever heard of? Should he keep his hand against Keith’s cheek? Or should Lance let his hand splay between Keith’s shoulder blades to pull him closer? Or—or wander down to settle on the jut of Keith’s hip where his t-shirt had likely ridden up in all this leaning Keith had been doing?

It’s pressing down on the accelerator until it breaks in his brain, the thoughts spinning out of control with increasing mileage.

And what happens once they stop kissing? What happens if Keith doesn’t want to stop? Do they go back to Keith’s place? Lance’s? Will they need condoms? Does Lance even have condoms? Fuck, when was the last time he even got laid? It’s possible that it could have been long enough that the condoms have expired and that is really just—hell on earth, the notion of standing in his empty apartment with a very hot guy and no fucking valid protection from STDs and STIs, good fucking god—

“Uh.” Keith breathes against his mouth, and it’s only now that Lance realizes he’s just been staring at Keith like some kind of fucking moron, for the last fifteen seconds or so of his internal breakdown. “You alright?”

He cannot kiss Keith again. Because if he kisses Keith again this helpless inevitable feeling that something irrevocable and magical is changing tonight will continue to unfurl under Lance’s skin and yeah. He cannot kiss Keith again because if he does, he’s pretty sure he’ll be half in love with him.

And Lance may be a romantic. Lance may believe in true love and weird kismet but this is, and always has been, a bizarre twist of events. Not fate. Not coincidence. Keith is the dude that Lance is paying two hundred dollars to drink a fuckton of vodka with, and nothing more. Sure, he knows Lance from class, but that doesn’t mean anything.

“Yeah I’m just.” A wheezy gust escapes Lance in what is probably the fakest attempt at laughter he has ever seen. “I’m just like…so wasted, you know?”

A pause. Quiet breath. Then—

“Yeah,” Keith says quietly. “Me too.”

“Right.” The air between them suddenly fills with cold as he moves back to a safe distance, smiling at Keith. “We haven’t even finished the bottle, you know.”

“Guess we should get around to that,” Keith says, looking anywhere but at Lance.

*

So, they drink.

The conversation, really, is what happens as a result.

*

“I was twelve.”

“Twelve? That’s pretty young.”

“Yeah, well. One of my sisters is a lesbian. So like. I didn’t exactly grow up in an intolerant household? I was encouraged to explore and be open, so I was and am supremely lucky. The notion of being attracted to the same gender it wasn’t like…unheard of to me. But it was confusing as hell! I knew I liked girls, the other stuff was harder to figure out.”

“So you were twelve, and you just woke up and knew? Or did you get a crush on someone?”

“Well, the legitimate crushes didn’t start hitting until high school, but—” Lance blushes. “Okay now that I’m thinking about it this is kind of ridiculous as a ‘When I Knew I Was Into Dudes’ kind of story. I take it back.”

“Who’s fucking judging?” Keith takes a sip of vodka. “I’m not.”

“Okay, okay. Well, have you seen Captain America: Civil War?”

“Which one is that—the one with the Winter Soldier?”

“Yeah but the second one, the one where he fights Iron Man.”

“Oh, right. And?”

“You know that one scene where Chris Evans basically bicep curls a helicopter?”

“Ah.”

“Yup. Pretty much sealed the deal.”

*

“You do not.”

“Do too! I’ll prove it to you, Hunk took photos.”

“Yeah, uh-huh sure. I’m calling your bluff, dude. There’s no fucking way.”

A rustle and scrape as Lance gropes for his phone, swipes to unlock the screen, bathing Keith’s face in blue light and shadow.

When he leans over to peer at the screen, Lance can smell the smoke from the party still clinging to Keith’s shirt, mixed somewhere in with laundry detergent. He is very, very careful not to inhale too deep.

He finds the right photo, hands the phone over, and waits.

“It has to be fake. Temporary. I call bullshit. You do not have a tattoo.”

“I do too! On my shoulder.”

“Show me.”

“…”

“…”

“Fine!” Lance huffs, turns and reaches to tug the fabric of his baseball tee up and over his head until it’s half bunched around his neck, exposing his back to the wind chill.

He tries not to shiver as the silence stretches, as Keith stares at the small inked flag of Cuba that unfurls along the muscle of Lance’s left shoulder blade.

Lance waits for Keith to curse, admit defeat, something, but Keith’s having another one of those spontaneous and broody silences he’s apparently prone to. And then, the quietest and briefest second when Lance thinks feels something—almost like fingertips—brush over the shape and color of the tattoo, but the feeling’s gone too quick to be concrete. Had to be the breeze.

“Cool.” Keith’s voice retreats a bit.

Lance turns again, tugging his shirt back into place as Keith fiddles with his phone. “Told you so. Now show me yours.”

“My what?”

“Your tattoo, dummy.”

“Oh, I don’t have one.”

Lance gapes. “You said you went to go get one!”

“I mean, I did. And if you really need to see, there’s a spot of ink on my bicep maybe the size of a freckle where they tried to start one. I was going to get my Korean name, but I fainted the second they touched me. Afraid of needles.”

“You bastard! You told me you had a giant dragon across your chest.”

“Got you to show off yours, didn’t it?”

“You just wanted to get me shirtless, didn’t you.”

“Whatever, not like you jumped at the opportunity or anything.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Nope. Don’t remember. Didn’t happen.”

*

“It—it took me a while.”

Keith says this to Lance while staring into the window of a vintage thrift shop, like he’s considering the shaggy fur coat on the display mannequin and not talking about something deeply personal. He volunteered the information, but he very carefully does not look at Lance. “I didn’t have your kind of background. I wasn’t that lucky.”

“What kind of background did you have?”

“A complicated one. One where it wasn’t as…safe. Not until I left high school. I mean. I think I always knew, but. It’s hard to affirm or explore your sexual identity when you’re too scared to even admit it to yourself. But I think I was about fifteen. Maybe sixteen, when I stopped denying it to myself and just. Let it be. At the time, I—I didn’t exactly ever expect to meet anyone.”

“You mean nobody gave you the cliched and essential ‘It Gets Better’ talk?”

“Nah. Just sort of assumed I’d have to figure it out and learn how to be alone.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m still alone. But I have, I dunno. It’s kind of dumb sounding but— hope, I guess. Hope that I won’t always be.”

Lance’s heart is doing this weird sort of contra dance in the space between his stomach and throat. He doesn’t really understand why.

“So,” he says, more to fill the silence than anything. “Did you also watch Captain America 3 when this realization happened?”

“No, I—. It was this summer beach trip, sort of a summer camp thing. This kid I was sort of friends with, Jharrel, got it into his head to drag me into the water. I was in middle school, maybe 8th grade, scrawny as a goddamn chicken and insecure as all get out about anyone seeing me in a wet t-shirt, but he tackled me into the sand, dragged my ass out into the waves. We must have wrestled and rolled around for nearly half an hour, covered in sand. Looked like idiots, too. You know how stupid play fighting gets.”

“Hunk routinely carries me around over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and we’re in our twenties, so yeah.”

“Right. Anyways, the beach day ended and we all went home. But that night, I woke up so hard I couldn’t see straight. I thought I was going to throw up. I hardly knew what was going on. And when I did—well. ”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Keith says, and only then does he look away from the window display and begin walking again.

*

“The first time? Oh god. God, fuck, it was so bad. Of course, I don’t like feel the effects of the brownie right away. So I ate two. And then I ate three.”

“Please tell me you stopped at three.”

“…”

“Keith.”

“Lance.”

“How many magic brownies did you eat.”

“Upwards of five.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Honestly? I know it sounds horrible, and don’t get me wrong—it definitely was—but I barely remember a thing. Which I suppose is good. Because according to my roommate at the time, the night began and ended with me clutching the toilet seat and crying and thinking that the government knew I knew about the real X-files and were coming to get me.”

“Jesus?”

“Tried to throw myself off the balcony screaming BEAM ME THE FUCK UP, SCULLY, which wasn’t even a correct reference, by the way. It was messy.”

Lance laughs so hard he cries, and makes Keith tell it all over again.

*

“Wait wait wait. Hold the fuck up. You’re telling me that for six months you actually thought that the chart-topping bop ‘Side to Side’ by Queen Ariana Grande, a literal Dick Riding Anthem, was not actually about riding dick?”

“It’s deceptively subtle!”

“What part of ‘been here all night, been here all day and noooooow you got me walking side to side’ is deceptive or subtle!?”

“I thought it was about dancing for twenty four hours and being tired! I thought it was a dance song. That’s completely rational!”

“Don’t talk to me for at least ten minutes,” says Lance, shaking his head. “I feel like I need to go lie down and process this.”

“Process this,” Keith snaps, grabbing Lance in a headlock and forcing him to take a swig, laughing when Lance sputters and spits some on the sidewalk.

*

“My biggest problem is that if someone dares me to do something, I will do it. Doesn’t matter how stupid.”

“So what’s the stupidest?”

“You’re going to laugh.”

“This is nothing new.”

Lance sneaks a glance sideways, sticks his tongue out at Keith’s twisted I’m-trying-not-to-smile-but-I’m-totally-smiling mouth.

“Okay, so you know Parkour?”

“Oh my god.”

*

Lance finally convinces Keith to watch the entire John Mulaney salt-and-pepper-diner routine. They share ear buds and Lance drains the measly final percentage of his phone battery but when Keith cracks up, when Keith falls against Lance in laughter—faced pressed to Lance’s shoulder, his eyes crinkled and his grin stretched wide—it is totally fucking worth it.

*

“Jersey Devil?”

“Fake.”

“Hm…Loch Ness Monster.”

“Real. But half the ‘found footage’ is fake.”

“Area 51?”

“What else is it supposed to be other than aliens?”

“Bigfoot?”

“Not real.”

“Mothman?”

“Real.” Keith grins. “And my favorite.”

“I gotta be honest,” Lance confesses. “I don’t even really know what the legend of mothman is.” He slides a glance over in Keith’s direction. “Would you know anything about that?”

When Lance turned four, his parents celebrated his birthday by inviting over all the neighborhood kids and hiring a magician to come and perform magic tricks. Then, Lance was wide eyed and absolutely believed in magic. But even now, a believer of science and all, he’ll never be able to explain where the trick was in watching the magician lift a handkerchief and revealing a flock of white doves where there’d only been air seconds before. The idea of something from nothing, and the sense of wonderment that bubbled up in his belly, the incandescent happiness that a thing this magical could exist.

Watching Keith’s face light up is a lot like that. His expression goes from pleasant to dazzled, lit by something pure and bright and warm. Seemingly out of thin air.

Pidge was right. Keith’s a total fucking nerd, and it’s adorable.

Keith launches into a long winded explanation, grinning and talking so fast he keeps fudging some of the words because alcohol, and Lance feels that same amazed feeling spill into him, only now the flock of white doves are flapping about in his stomach. Only now he feels that he should be sprinting down the block and gathering witnesses, shouting out loud for everyone to hear: Hey come look at this! Come look and see. Do you see? This is amazing! This is important. This is so important.

It’s the most Keith has talked the entire night without stopping and boy does he _talk_. Even throws in a few hand gestures he’s so excited, eyes shining. Keith talks for so long his voice starts to get hoarse and Lance doesn’t interrupt him but to ask questions, spur on more of that passionate spark in his expression.

Normally, Lance would try and balance out the conversation, but for once he’s eager to just listen to Keith ramble on for ages about Mothman’s location, what Mothman actually is, how he could exist. And it’s stupid…it’s kind of really stupid, but they’re walking along the dimly lit sidewalk behind the library and Keith can’t shut up about freaking mothman, of all things, and Lance is definitely still drunk, but all he can think is about how he wants to do this again. Wants to do this tomorrow. The day after. Kind of for the rest of the foreseeable future, if he’s honest with himself.

 _I don’t want this to end_ , he realizes, looking over at Keith and feeling like he’s standing on the brink of. Something. _I really don’t want this to end._

He knows what happens when the sun comes out, brings reality rising with it. Keith will go inside in his apartment and Lance will turn around go and home to his and they will not cross paths again, save awkward interactions in the classroom.

There’s a million versions of how this moment could go if it didn’t really have an end.

One where he takes Keith into his arms and mashes their lips together just like they do in the old black and white movies as the screen fades to black. Another where he says _you should come home with me_ , and Keith does.

Chances are there, without a doubt. He just has to be brave enough and terrified enough to take them.

Lance is a touchy person by rote. Lance hugs and holds hands and kisses cheeks with pretty much anyone he’s on friendly terms with. The way he figures it, life is short, there’s no reason to be stingy with open affection. He’s never had to give it much thought beyond that. Even with other dates and flings and hookups.

Now, he finds himself feeling practically shy, staggered by the amount of things he wants in this moment.

Like how he wants to hold hands with Keith. Wants to bring Keith’s hand up and brush his lips over the knobs of his knuckles, the vulnerable inside of his wrist. Kiss Keith slow, press against him until all the air between them vanishes. Let the world whole boil down to hands and mouths. Breath flickering like fire and the boom of crashing heartbeats.

The more he thinks about it, the more the idea takes hold of him, mind spooling and unspooling with what ifs and wants.

Maybe that’s why he can never seem to make it work quite right. He wants too many things and as a result, gets none of them.

Too much time spent wanting all these things, thinking all these thoughts. Too busy dreaming to take action, eyes full of stars.

So he keeps his hands firmly stuffed in his pockets and looks out at the sky, searching for constellations in a black that’s beginning to perk up with tangerine hue.

*

By the time they wind their way back to Keith’s apartment, the sun is beginning to break over the cityscape. Sunday morning. They’d spent practically the whole night just talking.

“Can I borrow a charger for a few minutes?” Lance asks. “Just so I can call my Uber and such.”

Keith nods, and Lance trudges up the stairs after him, exhaustion stinging the corner of his eyes, letting Keith lead him like a dog on a leash. Keith fumbles for his keys and Lance yawns, alertness fuzzy around the edges.

He’s both exhausted and drunk, which means the exhaustion is tripled. All he wants to do is sleep.

In Keith’s bedroom—Lance is too drunk and tired to take note of the decor this time—Keith plugs in Lance’s phone. Lance collapses bonelessly to the floor, leaning back against the mattress, shoulder to shoulder.

“Should we cut these, by the way?”

“I said I’d finish the fifth with you,” Keith says, somehow with enough energy to sound stubborn. “Let’s do it.”

They pass the bottle back and forth in turns, knees bumping as they sit across from one another. They’re at the point—or at least, Lance is—where the telltale burn of alcohol is absent. It goes down like water and he finishes it off with a flourish, mouth numb.

Then the bottle is empty.

For a moment, it’s almost like they don’t know what to do with themselves.

“That reminds me.” Lance’s hand trips over his phone, careful not to detach it from the charger. “I gotta venmo you. Ha.”

“Oh. Right.”

He does a quick search for Keith Kogane, finds a ID picture with a UFO in it and connects the dots. Sends 200 bucks payment for ‘Saving My Hiney’ and throws in a couple cutesy emojis in for good measure.

“Sent.” He holds up the screen to Keith as proof. “Guess we should get this done with then. Got a blow torch?”

“Yeah, if you want to get your wrist burned off,” says Keith, leaning over and pulling open one of those plastic industrial drawers that every college student seems to own. “I’ve got Swiss army knife in here somewhere. Hang on.”

Pale skin flashes where his shirt lifts around his waist and Lance, helpless and Too Fucking Drunk For This Shit, hangs on.

It’s over in a heartbeat: the soft snick of the knife, taut stretch of plastic and then the snap. The zip-tie falls to the floor in pieces. The slightly raw strip around his wrist from friction begins to tingle.

Neither of them moves.

“Well then,” says Lance softly. His bare wrist almost looks out of place now, all by its lonesome. “Looks like you’re completely rid of me.”

“Yeah.” Keith hasn’t moved away from where he’s seated next to Lance.

“Hope you can say this wasn’t the _worst_ night of your life.”

“It’s up there.” Keith smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Another beat. Lance knows he’s drunk, but Keith seems so much closer, and he’s not even handcuffed to him anymore.

“I should call an Uber,” Lance whispers.

“Okay.”

It takes a bare fifteen seconds to punch in the address into the app. Lance’s driver will be there in five. His phone tells him to be downstairs in three.

Yet he can’t seem to even get up from the carpet. The exhaustion, the inebriation, it’s all there: turning his brain sluggish and his bones leaden, but it’s dappled with this awareness of everything in the room, from the dust motes that drift through the sun slanting through the blinds to Keith beside him, breath coming shallow.

Keith, who is looking at Lance like he’s waiting for something to happen. Mouth parted, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. Lance can’t stop looking at it.

The final blow comes when Lance raises his eyes to Keith’s—sees liquid heat and dilated pupils and hooded lids. That’s when they both snap.  

And then—

And then Lance is leaning, because he’s stupid, because he’s drunk, because he wants Keith so bad that even in this sorry state it’s all he can fucking think about. How he wants and he wants and he wants.

And then Keith is leaning in too, only he’s got ideas of his own. His knee is knobby but his thigh is warm as it swings it over Lance’s leg. Lance knows this because he’s there to fumble and catch it and steady Keith, splay his fingers and grips the curve of Keith’s thigh like he can’t get his balance, like he’s falling. Keith perches, one hand planted firmly in the bedspread behind Lance, the other reaching out to touch Lance’s face. Fingers card through Lance’s sweaty bangs and skin along the angle of his jaw, the cut of his cheekbone.

They’re just sort of pressed together—not kissing, not moving—just sort of breathing in each other’s air and pressing foreheads and if Keith doesn’t kiss Lance right the fuck now, Lance might actually fucking die.

Keith’s lips are there, ghosting over Lance’s, when his phone goes off.

 _BARRY HAS ARRIVED!_ Lance sees the glowing screen out of the corner of his eye.

“I have to go,” Lance finds himself saying, the words descending like a glass shield between his mouth and Keith’s. “Um. Can I use your bathroom real quick?”

“Right.” Keith makes an aborted gesture towards the bathroom and then scrambles off of Lance as quickly as possible, red in the face. Something’s off, something’s wrong, but Lance does not have the brain capacity to figure it out right now. “Uh, get home safe I guess.”

“Thanks,” says Lance, feeling barely awake. “You too.”

Keith darts from the room. Lance looks at his phone, seeing the telltale countdown timer for his Uber’s departure. Whatever, he’ll call another one once he gets downstairs. He just has to freshen up first. Just needs to rest for a minute. Just for a second.

Lance tips his head back against the mattress that he leans against. Closes his eyes.

*

The first time Lance McClain ever had a hangover, it was on three wine coolers that he drank, holed up in his parent’s garage and pulling off a dare from his older sister. He was fifteen, and because stupidity at fifteen is a brand all on its own, he didn’t yet know that for every drink, you’re supposed to counter it with an equal amount of water.

Since then he’d been blessed with the saint-like presence of Hunk—who nursed him back to a semi-decent state through the tried and true method of greasy food and water. He thought, by now, his body had at least gotten a tolerance to alcohol that the Great Hangover of 2016 would never happen again.

He was unfortunately, spectacularly wrong.

The first thing Lance notices is the headache. He doesn’t even open his eyes and the pain is already there, persistent thwump of pulse except like…in his skull instead of his chest. Pins and needles have replaced his cranium, and the sensation does not improve much upon opening his eyes.

“Fuck,” he groans, but it comes out more like a an unintelligible apocalyptic zombie noise than anything else, because his mouth is dry as sandpaper and his tongue is tacky against his lips.

He once read an article about how the average human accidentally consumes like a hundred spiders in a lifetime while they sleep with their mouth open. Going off of how his mouth tastes right now, he’s pretty sure at least sixty died in there within the past few hours.

Lance stands up, making his best attempt at functioning, but the resulting wave of nausea that overtakes him is insurmountable. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s vomiting spectacularly into the sink.

Jesus fuck. He is never setting foot in a frat house ever again.

Bleary eyed and suffering, he retrieves his phone from the bedroom. There’s no one in the bed, but there is a blanket on the floor, which had been tucked around Lance’s body before he’d woken up.

Outside, in the living room, he spots a small figure curled up beneath a large fleecy blanket. Nothing visible but a tussled looking mullet sticking out from the end.

Lance allows himself one last look, and leaves.

*

Three hours later, Keith appears utterly baffled as he opens his door again to find Lance standing there.

Keith frowns. “You left.”

“I did.” Lance cringes. “And then I got home, took a shower, threw up in the shower, drank a shitton of water, and then realized what a fucking idiot mistake I’d made, and turned right back around.”

“You threw up in my sink.”

“I….I did. I'll clean that up.”

“You didn’t leave a note.” Then, said in a more tender tone: “You left without saying goodbye.”

“I’m sorry,” Lance apologizes. “That was shitty of me. I wish I had a better explanation apart from the fact that I am so hungover I’m not even sure I’m alive right now, but I don’t.”

“Why did you come back?”

That stops Lance, who only now realizes that he essentially sprinted back here guns ablazing with no actual plan or reason other than knowing he just had to.

But that’s not going to fly with Keith, who’s got his arms crossed over his chest and is looking at Lance like he’s…like he’s just some random ass frat boy on the street again.

Like the sun came up and took the real Lance with it.

“Look,” Lance huffs. “I know my timing is shit, and you’re in no way obligated to say yes because like. I paid you. I paid you so that part of the deal is done and like. Not that it wasn’t fun, but I wanted it to be done. Not because of you, but like. I wanted you to not be obligated. Because then if I wasn’t paying you I would know. Without a doubt.”

“Know what?”

God. This is awful. This is certifiably awful. Lance fists a hand in his hair, tries to gather his thoughts, but said thoughts are basically scrambled eggs at this point because his head is pounding and his shirt smells like puke and his mouth tastes like death even after he brushed his teeth and he’s pretty sure that a corpse would look better than he does and also he hasn’t slept like, at all.

But he stands there, staring at Keith, staring at the random stranger he’d pulled off the side of the street, who he’d spent an entire night with, and thinks—not for the first time in the past 24 hours— _fuck it_.

“Do you want to grab breakfast with me?”

Keith frown grows impossibly deeper. “Like, now?”

“Now. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. I don’t really care either way,” says Lance, aware he’s talking fast and pretty much just saying whatever comes to mind with no efforts of stopping it. “We can get coffee, drinks—actually I don’t want to drink alcohol for the next foreseeable lifetime but I’ll be happy to buy you one if you want—or dinner. But I figured breakfast would be a good place to start. If you like that sort of thing.”

Lance clamps his mouth shut and waits, trying not to fidget too much. He can’t even bring himself to look directly at Keith, rather fixes his eyes on the door jamb next to his ear and tries not to blush.

And then, like magic and myth, Keith smiles, the expression transforming his entire face and hitting Lance like the sun has descended from the sky to punch him directly in the gut. God help him, he is so gone.

(But then, he kind of knew that from the get go.)

Keith eases open the door just a bit more, an answer and suggestion all at once.

“Breakfast sounds good to me.”

*

fin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I know this is long long overdue but—to anyone has read my other VLD fics and has given them so much love, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I never expected Never Saw You Coming and Nothing’s Quite As Sweet to get the overwhelming response that they have. This fic is a short n sweet thank you note for all your support, which has gotten me through many a bad day. I read every single comment, often multiple times, and I can’t express my gratitude enough, there truly are no words.
> 
> 2) I am currently pursuing a career as a writer and am hoping to one day be published. I wanted let you know that at some point in the distant future I will be taking ALL my fics down from archiveofourown, in VLD and other fandoms alike. This is a decision that I’ve given a lot of thought to, and though it pains me, I believe it is the one that is best choice for me. 
> 
> In the meantime, please feel free to download the PDFs from here and share amongst each other. This isn’t an urgent matter, and will not happen for a while, but I did want to put a note here casually mentioning it.
> 
> 3) Thank you for reading <3


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